the path between fiction and silence//scylla and charybdis is itself strewn with thorns, leads perhaps to heaven and perhaps to ithaca. in either case it calls for patience and grace, and will not be disturbed by naive selfiscopy.
i was at wuddistan.blogspot.com for a few years, until the need arose to move, to sidestep my own shadow; thus hijrah, exodus, as autumn begins to fall.
this is not displacement. :
the rain has made my hair cold.
you have been gone
have been going
such a very long time.
it is the sky that is lost,
dissolved in the name
that belongs to slow forgetting.
the trees wait to be taken.
- from david manicom’s “signs of evening”.
i can be reached at autochthonous[at]gmail[dot]com, or by looking up “obscure russian dramaturges” in your local friendly phonebook.
tomorrow and tomorrow.
biqbal
wuddistan, oct1.06
